Messy Hearts & Shattered Stars
by AJ Grisham
Summary: * He didn't ask to be born Abnegation. That's because Abnegation don't ask. Ever. *They like the sunshine; she likes the shade. We know where this is going. * All of his opinions are lies. "I want to stay," being the biggest one. * She's brave enough to zipline and fight, but not brave enough to change factions. * He only likes numbers when they're paint by numbers. *


{Author's Note}

Hello my gorgeous lovelies! I've missed you truck loads. I wanted to play with the idea of people who were born in the wrong faction and how the feel being forced to conform to a standard that's not for them. I also thought it would be fun to play with all of the factions since in the books we only get to experience Dauntless and Abnegation life the most. This story is rated M, I don't feel the need to tell you that twice. Thank you so much for your love and support. You truly are the best friends I've had. Also thanks to the best ever, 123lovestory, for pushing me to write this.

**A synonym for _abnegation _is self-denial**

Every morning he wakes up and wishes he heard birds. Or trains. Or the sound of breakfast being made to the tune of an old argument.

He hears nothing.

The void of silence filling his brain with a ringing hum not even above a whisper though still as loud a scream. The same kind of scream he'll hear from the Dauntless at school while they poke at each other and laugh at jokes that aren't quite mean enough to be Candor but not smart enough to be Erudite.

John pulls himself out of bed and tucks the dirty, thin sheet under a near broken mattress. He catches the tiniest reflection of wild auburn hair and whiskey colored eyes. He doesn't look away and he doesn't feel guilty.

**_amity (n.)-_ a friendly relationship**

She knows the bread is drugged because she's smarter than them.

She eats it anyway.

There's a bit of an after taste. It's too pungent to be pleasant but not bad enough she'll refrain from eating it. It reminds her of when people ask how much fuel the tractors have. They'll say, "More than half but less than three quarters."

In between 50 percent and 75.

Carol's never been a math person.

**A man of refreshing _candor_.**

There's a girl on his lap. He has one hand behind her head and the other halfway up her shirt. She kisses him and whispers sweet nothings about love and devotion into his mouth. Eventually, they stop because she wants to and he's not going to argue.

"Hey," He says looking at his girl. She's not his girl because he doesn't own her. He doesn't own anything. Not even his thoughts. "I love you." He tells her.

"I love you too, Charlie." Then they start talking about the Choosing Ceremony. She has her point of view and he has his opinions. All of his opinions are lies. "I want to stay," being the biggest one.

**A synonym for _dauntless_ is fearless (but becoming fearless isn't the point).**

When she turned eight she had a red streak in her hair. By the time she was thirteen it was her whole head. It reminded her of fire. Of destruction. Of lipstick stains, of cupcakes.

Blood.

She'd always wanted a tattoo but she could never find one that she'd want on her body forever. Nothing was significant to her.

She spent half her days at the shooting range punching accurate holes through target after target after target. The pucker of paper like lips of a man that knows what you want and exactly how to give it to you.

When she's done her fingers smell like metal and she leaves to spend the better half of her day downing bourbon after bourbon at the bar.

**A slang term for _erudite_ is know-it-all**

Isaac is named after the scientist. You know, the one with the apple and the head. An object in motion will stay in motion and whatnot. Inertia.

He spends his three hours after lunch in the library tucked into the Art History section. Alone.

No one in Erudite gives a shit about art history.

They laugh with their fancy wines and champagne. The doctors smoke cigars ironically because they all know how bad it is for them. "Art, Isaac? Really? That's bullshit. A waste of time."

They say it nicely. Underhanded.

He wants to kill them with his pencil then paint it. Cigars down their throats and broken glasses used to bludgeon their eyes or slit their throats. Both.

He runs his hands through white blonde locks. He drums his fingers against the table and chews on the end of his glasses.

Isaac Cruikshank, Scottish cartoonist. Died in 1811. Long time ago, eh?

If he ended up in that book, thirteen letters would separate them.

It's a bad omen and he knows it.

**A man of refreshing _candor_.**

His father, born and raised Candor, smokes.

As of four months ago, so does Charlie. He does it out the window sill with his legs open like boys do.

It's so fucking pretentious.

And kind of hot.

He's matted and wrinkled in the droopy black dress pants and collared white shirt. His tie is loose and there are buttons unbuttoned or rebuttoned in the wrong place thanks to his girl that's not really his. Never really will be. She likes his chocolate hair and sky colored eyes. He has the stain of her cherry lips on his neck like a tattoo the Dauntless would flaunt around with pride.

He's hanging out the twelfth of Merciless Mart. Thirteen floors separate him from the top. He smirks like he does and takes it as a good sign.

The sun sets sloppily and Charlie smokes listening to his father's record player spin round and round and round like the thoughts in his head or happy dancing couples six floors down. The band is _old_ and they sing about a dead woman named Eleanor Rigby.

Maybe she jumped out a window like he thinks about doing.

She didn't; he doesn't.

**A synonym for _abnegation _is self-denial**

John makes dinner.

John hates cooking.

John hates a lot of things only he doesn't. In Abnegation, hate is forbidden.

Therefore, he doesn't hate the annoying Dauntless girl that sits behind him in Faction History and he doesn't hate his auburn hair. He doesn't hate the faction system and he doesn't hate the Choosing Ceremony. He doesn't hate Erudite. He doesn't hate selfless acts.

Maybe he's allowed to strongly dislike them?

In his head he hates_,_ he hates, he _hates_.

Plain ole' John in his little gray cave cooking for five because the council wanted a big family for the White's. His parents weren't even _allowed_ to want x many children. He thinks that's fucked up.

He heard that word from the annoying Dauntless girl that sits behind him in Faction History. The one that he doesn't hate.

He does.

**A synonym for _dauntless_ is fearless (but becoming fearless isn't the point).**

She has friends. They do her hair and they drink wine coolers someone's older brother bought them. There's also three bags of fireworks stuffed to the brim and a slew of older boys that will be meeting them somewhere tonight.

She doesn't remember where.

The friends straighten her hair and line her eyes with coal that should be at the bottom of the Dauntless bowl covered in the thick blood of scared teenagers. She's pretty. She's short so she wears heels. There's not much to Marilyn other than that she _is_.

Straightforward, some call her (that's a synonym for candor).

**A slang term for _erudite_ is know-it-all**

He walks.

And walks. The light of the street lamps bathe him in a rich, pale gold that you can't wear.

It's just a memory anyway.

What're they worth?

They come in a gaggle. The Dauntless. It seems like they're thousands of them. The soldiers in black. They could kill him without even knowing where he is.

Their laughs are hazy with whiskey and smoke and lust.

Maybe there are twenty at most. A girl sticks out, but not like a sore thumb. She's got red hair in the sea of dark browns. It's bright.

She's draped around some guy in his twenties and they're licking each others tongues like it's a goddamn porno that'll save the human race. And yeah, he knows what porn is because he heard the Amity talking about doing it at lunch.

The girl has her hand up his shirt and the guy has his down the front of her black pants.

**A synonym for _dauntless_ is fearless (but becoming fearless isn't the point).**

They fuck in some abandoned building and when she wakes up she's alone.

**_amity (n.)-_ a friendly relationship**

Carol's in a tree.

They play the banjo around a campfire and sing happy songs while she sulks like a baby and bitches like a queen.

She's lonely.

The tree scrapes her limbs while she climbs down, scabs and scars from a basic battle. None like the Dauntless have from fights and wounds and stories about being half drunk while doing it.

While she walks to the cafeteria, she wonders how the Dauntless fuck. Rough, and fun probably. And Candor fuck sober. And do Abnegation even? She picks up two loaves of bread because she's even more hungry than she is horny and makes her way to the pond.

There's a girl on the dock Carol doesn't know and she shares her bread. They get high and make out until their lips are sore and swollen. Carol justifies it. Lips are lips and tits nice. The girl leaves and Carol doesn't know her name.

She's alone again.

She's lonely.

**A synonym for _abnegation _is self-denial**

The cute Amity girl that sits on his left him in Faction History gives him a boner. She's got loose blonde hair and freckles he wishes he could fuck. He wants to pull off the baggy shirt over her head and see her tits but he suppresses the urge. He wants to pound into her under a tree with baskets of apples by them and banjos playing.

He's a dirty sinner for thinking this.

He is even more when he excuses himself to go jerk off in the bathroom toilet.

**A man of refreshing _candor_.**

Charlie smokes on the steps with the other Candor boys in their slim suites and wild haircuts. The Dauntless say they're total douches and the Erudite call them dim. They're actually just nicotine addicted teenage boys, bad habits with pretty girls that give them half hearted handys.

They're still the coolest and they know it. They can always spot a lie.

**A synonym for _dauntless_ is fearless (but becoming fearless isn't the point).**

She's pissed so naturally so goes to buy shoes and eyeliner.

All a girl needs, really.

She changes her nose stud to something black and she puts on fresh fishnets and new shoes. Her eyes are black her hair is red and she's got on layers of lace underneath.

After a few shots she's playing pool with the big boys (big in more ways than one). If she wins, she gets front row access to the fight club (a prize she doesn't really want) and if she loses he gets to screw her in the back room.

She leans over the table spilling cleavage like her bourbon and hits the stripe into the pockets.

She's _really_ fucking good at pool.

About halfway through, she's bored and they decide to compromise. She gets into the fight club and he gets her and they sneak off to the backroom.

He's cute with rusty curls and black eyes. He's young and his face is stubbly. He's her type and he knows it.

The fish nets are down her legs and her brasserie is on the floor. Her legs are tight around him as she presses her lips to his ear while he slides into her. He's got one head between her breasts, the other between her thighs and with every snap of his hips she thinks about the pool game she could have won. Her eyes are fluttering and she whispers filth about how big he is while he kisses her breasts hardening her nipples.

When they're done she cries alone in the closet looking at the hickey in the valley of her breasts wondering what the actual _fuck_ she had just got herself into.

**A slang term for _erudite_ is know-it-all**

He follows her. Down the hallway and outside to the courtyard, treeless and bare. It's dotted with strange sculptures he admired most of his childhood. Modern art from some ancient times.

She looks over her shoulder, braid swaying and faded dress twirling. His movements are animal like, stalking his prey. She looks back once again, her eyes as wide as her perfect pink mouth and she starts running. He wants to yell wait. He doesn't.

She weaves through the crowd until she's gone. Away. A pixie fluttering out of his life just as quickly as she came.

When he gets home, he does his homework and he sketches her. The short red dress and loose blonde braid. Freckled face and big brown eyes. His little dear. So innocent and fecund.

**A man of refreshing _candor_.**

He knocks on her door. "Are you there, Margaret? It's me, Charlie." He hears a scream like squeal and throws the door open.

Someone's head is in her legs licking all the way up her thighs. The head bobs she mewls.

He didn't need to see that.

Huffy and puffy like cigarette smoke, her eyes flutter shut then snap open.

It's a good fucking thing he never really loved her.

**A synonym for _abnegation _is self-denial**

His life is utterly boring.

No sex. No drugs. No teenage fun and experimenting or whatever the shit kids his age do.

No talking at the dinner table.

His showers are cold and pointless. He avoids the icy chill of water, his body facing away and his temple pressing against the wall.

He cries.

Abnegation fucking sucks.

**A synonym for _dauntless_ is fearless (but becoming fearless isn't the point).**

She drinks her bourbon at home now. Straight from the bottle and in the bathtub, all wet hair and bare ivory skin. Hefty sighs from sadness and something else. Her nails are red like the blood on her wrists.

Her hair isn't that color anymore.

**_amity (n.)-_ a friendly relationship**

She swings lazily in a hammock and stars at the foggy sky. There's an apple in one hand and a joint in the other. The girl she made out with the other day gave it to her free of charge.

Fireflies blink around her and everything seems hazy. She huffs out weed and skins herself out of her dress.

Amity. Sex and drugs. Make love, not war. Friendship and peace be with you and all that bullshit. She wants to go swimming but she doesn't, she just listens to the cool brush of pond water to grassy hills.

There are dicks and shit in the water.

Ducks.

She means ducks.

Crazy what a little pot'll do to you, ain't it?

**A man of refreshing _candor_.**

"So you walked in on her screwing someone else?" Christopher asks. He lights a cigarette off Charlie's. They're disheveled and erotic on the steps of school. They're ditching and they'll lie about it later.

Candor can't lie but they do all the time. Their teachers are fucking idiots.

"There was a head between her legs and it wasn't mine," Charlie answers taking a drag.

He likes Christopher. It's as close as either of them will get to having a best friend. But Christopher is pretty quiet for Candor and Charlie's just confused so they share cigarettes and secrets and sex tips.

"Fuck her, dude," Christopher says shaking his head.

Charlie laughs. "Man, that's kind of what I'm _not_ going to do since she screwed someone else."

Christopher playfully punches him in the arm. It's pretty solid, both the punch and Charlie's arm. "You know what I meant. Don't be a bitch." Every word is friendly. "We could drive up to Amity this weekend. Say we're delivering apples or shit and score their."

Charlie shakes his head. He's not ready. Just because he didn't love her doesn't mean he didn't _like_ her. "Nah man,"

"Suit yourself." Christopher flicks off some ash and smokes away.


End file.
